Page 70 of Seeing Grayscale

Upscale and suburban, the neighborhood screams wealth. Giant houses line the street, and thick trees with orange and red leaves decorate each front yard and sidewalk. We are in a driveway.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Blinking, I slowly face Hunter. He looks…awful. Blood-shot eyes, pale and a little sweaty. “Is this your house?”

He nods. “Yeah. Went through the back gate because…doesn’t matter. It’s safe enough.”

“Safe?” What is he on about?

“Let me get inside, get a drink, and I’ll explain, okay?” He pleads with his eyes, no anger directed at me anymore, just fear.

“Okay.”

A weak smile, then he’s pulling into the garage.

The house itself is what anyone would expect. Two stories, complete with an attic that isn’t meant to be creepy because the house is new, but it’s still fucking creepy.

Attics are always haunted, alright?

The walls are off-white—eggshell, if I had to guess. His living room consists of an L-shaped sectional cream couch, sitting smack dab in the center of the space. Bone-grey carpet stops at the hardwood foyer. He’s got a flat-screen TV one inch away from being a movie theater screen. A few boring lamps and a glass coffee table, complete with coasters.

In other words, it’s dead in here.

His kitchen, where he disappeared to immediately, isn’t much better. I mean, I guess it’s aniceone. Fancy marble countertops, steel fixtures, and one of those refrigerators with a touchscreen display make up most of it. Other than the bizarre coffee pot, I don’t think any of this shit is ever used.

I lean against the wall for support, watching him pull out some whiskey and a glass tumbler. He doesn’t bother offering me any; he just pours two fingers before tossing it back in one swallow.

Hissing through his teeth, he gently sets the glass down, sighs, and faces me. “I panicked,” he says bluntly.

Those pesky two words sizzle over the tip of my tongue, needing to be said because Iamsorry. Instead, I say, “I won’t do it again.” It might appear that I’m relaxed due to my posture, but my leg hurts, so I have no choice but to stand here. I definitely won’t be sitting down for whatever painful thing will come out of his mouth.

No, I’ll take it standing so when I have to leave, at least I’m halfway to the damn door.

His brows pinch in confusion as his head shakes. “What?”

“I had a moment of…weakness, or whatever,” I wave my hand around dismissively, “I didn’t mean to…come on to you like that. I know you said—”

“Gray, that isn’t the issue,” he cuts me off, straightening. Side-eyeing the whiskey, he takes a few seconds to pour another but doesn’t chug it this time. He takes two delicate sips before cupping it with both hands. “I don’t want you ever to feel like you can’t lean on me because youcan.That’s not a problem. It was the location.”

“So you didn’t want anyone to see me,” I say carefully, making sure I’m not misunderstanding.

“Pretty much,” he mutters and takes another sip. “People know who I am. I’m…god, it sounds so pretentious, but I’m famous. A political celebrity, if you will. And my dad…” he trails off, eyes traveling to the window over the sink. They stay in their location when he continues, “He can’t ever know about me. What I am. What I do. It’s my biggest secret; no matter what I tell myself, I’m not ready for him to find out. I don’t think I ever will be.”

Now, it’s my turn to stare at the alcohol. Hobbling over to it, I don’t bother asking for a glass. Grabbing the neck, I twist the lid off and bring it to my lips. He glances at me as I take two big gulps. It isn’t cheap stuff, and I don’t recognize the label, so the burn catches me off guard. Instant warmth hits my bloodstreamand my head fizzles. Quickly setting the bottle down, I fold my arms, resting my back against the counter.

“That’s a shitty way to live,” I tell him. “Locked up in the closet forever.”

“I’m used to it,” he growls bitterly, snatching the bottle back. This time, he reaches into the cupboard above me and grabs a glass. “Fair warning, I’m a chatty sonofabitch when I drink.”

When both of our servings are poured, he slides the glass to me, and I take it. We clink the cups together and toss back the shot. “It makes sense,” I explain after my throat stops burning. “But what’s the worst thing that can happen, Hunter? You have your own house and career—so what if he doesn’t like it?”

“It’s not that simple.”

I want to argue that it is, but we agreed this would be a good day. Between our fucked up kiss, then my meltdown seeing my stolen art, it was already starting to darken. Now this bullshit with his secret double life? If we are getting drunk at 1 pm, we will at least do it the right way.

“Grab the bottle,” I tell him, bringing my cup and going to the living room.

As soon as my ass hits the firm couch, I prop my leg up on the coffee table. If it bothers Hunter, he doesn’t mention it, sitting next to me. His nearness messes with my head, but I don’t necessarily want to move. Out of every spot on the couch, he chose the one beside me. It seems like he wants to be near as well.

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